


Bringing His Lordship Around

by ribbons



Category: Dorothy L Sayers - Lord Peter Wimsey, Lord Peter Wimsey - Sayers
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bunter yearns for more than the status quo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing His Lordship Around

**Author's Note:**

> For: [](http://marginaliana.insanejournal.com/profile)[**marginaliana**](http://marginaliana.insanejournal.com/)
> 
> Challenge: [Yuletide](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/index.shtml)'s "New Year Resolutions"... which closed in 2007 before I had finished this story, since my brain unfortunately has the horsepower of a jalopy rather than a Daimler.
> 
> Prompt: "I'd really love to see some Peter/Bunter set pre-series at the time when Peter is having his nervous breakdown and Bunter shows up and puts him back together. Hot explicit mansex is a plus, but I'd also like to see something that prefigures Peter's relationship with Harriet - not that P/B would be angsty or end with B pining or anything like that, but something that wouldn't be utterly AU."
> 
> Betas: The incomparable [nineveh-uk](http://nineveh-uk.livejournal.com) and the inimitable [](http://aunty-marion.insanejournal.com/profile)[**aunty_marion**](http://aunty-marion.insanejournal.com/). What infelicities remain are my own, alas. Notes on quotations [here](http://bronze-ribbons.insanejournal.com/104452.html). First posted at insanejournal, 18 October 2007.

As he cracked the shell of an egg and whisked its yolk into a sauce for the fish, Mervyn Bunter rejoiced in his perception that Lord Peter truly seemed to be getting better. Although his lordship had not yet reached the point of issuing him direct orders, his recent responses to Bunter's questions had evinced a hint of playfulness -- of the vibrant intelligence that had characterised the directions Major Wimsey had issued to his men during the War. It was his lordship's wit that had extricated them from a problematic situation at Ypres, and Bunter savoured the prospect of matching his skills to the demands Lord Peter might make of him in the future.

It pleased Bunter to see his labours engendering results thus far, but he was eager to behold Lord Peter's gifts at their full strength, unencumbered by wartime responsibilities or shattered nerves. Bunter was aware that he had already favourably impressed the Dowager Duchess of Denver with the care he had tendered to his lordship and his surroundings -- all without requiring Lord Peter to ring a single bell -- but he was also conscious of his capacity to accomplish even more. To do so, however, he needed the stimulus of worthy challenges: he had outgrown the satisfaction of conventional competence, and he longed to exercise his powers upon the kinds of exigencies his lordship's inquisitive nature was likely to trigger when given full rein. Before the War, one of Sir John Sanderton's houseguests had been an amateur violinist who had spoken with delight about rehearsing with musicians more advanced than he: the man had thrived on the necessity of playing above his own level in order to keep pace with his companions. As he continued stirring the sauce over a very low flame, Bunter could not resist hoping that his own restlessness would soon find similar relief.

\--oo--

 

He served supper in the bedroom, where Lord Peter habitually dined when company was not present. As he watched Lord Peter consume the last morsels of fish, Bunter reflected on the many different variations of shivering he had witnessed over the years. In his experience, shivering was rarely a mere physical reaction to the temperature of one's surroundings: he had beheld many a man unconsciously quivering in anticipation of good news, and he harboured fond memories of former lovers trembling exquisitely in response to his attentions. In the course of looking after his employers and their sundry guests, he had honed his ability to "read" people beyond the words they chose to say or not to say. He had observed, for instance, how the gestures of a man temporarily incapacitated by voluntary inebriation were naturally more expansive and vigorous than that of one struggling through tremors incurred by involuntary sobriety. He had taken note of how these differed from the shuddering of a man impaired by shell-shock, memorising the variations among the ways Lord Peter hunched his shoulders and failed to meet one's eyes upon _nearly_ dropping a fork or _nearly_ tearing a page of a folio. There had been days when his lordship had avoided any contact with his pianoforte altogether, but in recent weeks, Lord Peter had played through numerous allemandes, capriccios, and gigues without incident.

Lord Peter's hand was steady as he set the fork down on his plate, but the rest of his body radiated the tension of someone trying not to shiver, even though the room was comfortably heated. His mauve dressing gown remained draped over a nearby chair, well within reach. He had consumed the meal almost mechanically -- _sans_ fuss, but also _sans_ enthusiasm -- leading Bunter to rule out serving a restorative digestif: his lordship did not appear to be in a frame of mind conducive to appreciating the glories of Napoleon brandy. Bunter also considered and then discarded the strategy of running a hot bath: in spite of his lordship's physical stillness, Bunter perceived a restiveness too deep to be dispelled by a mere soak.

Instead, Bunter removed the supper dishes and linens from the room, returning a few minutes later with his arms full of cushions from the sitting room. He then departed to the spare bedroom, from which he returned with more pillows. He proceeded to fashion an impromptu divan in front of the fire.

A faint smile materialised on Lord Peter's lips. "I daresay your next excursion into the wilds of the other rooms will be to retrieve the malodorous shag and the matches, what?"

"If that is what your lordship requires," Bunter replied.

Lord Peter hesitated. "I don't require anything, Bunter. But if you wouldn't mind gracing me with your company a while longer, I should be much obliged."

Bunter said, "It would be entirely my pleasure, my lord. If you will allow me to collect a few more accoutrements for your lordship's comfort, I will return shortly."

He interpreted the slight inclination of Lord Peter's head as a nod. Bunter swiftly walked to the kitchen, where he put the kettle on the range and assembled a selection of cheese and fruit. Earlier, when he had stopped in the kitchen to deposit the supper dishes, he had cast an apologetic glance at the canister of coffee before filling two teapots with hot water. When the water in the kettle reached full boil, he drained one of the teapots, spooned in the leaves, and poured the water over them. As the leaves steeped, he stepped down the hall to a linen chest from which he obtained fresh napkins, several towels, and a bottle of almond oil.

Returning to the kitchen, he emptied the second teapot and strained the tea into it, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of a libation brewed to perfection. He found it so very gratifying to be in the employ of a man with both the means and the inclination to finance second teapots, first-rate tea leaves, and other components of a well-tempered life. It was true that his lordship was not yet functioning as a concert-ready instrument, and the current necessity of ascertaining his wishes only through questions and suggestions meant that Bunter's repertoire of service was limited to those tasks he already knew how to perform or with which he had prior acquaintance. He was reminded of how, over the years, he'd witnessed musicians compensating for sudden impairments in their instruments: the organist at his childhood church responding to a malfunctioning pedal by matter-of-factly selecting a different descant; the violinist at Sir John Sanderton's concluding a cadenza on three strings instead of four.

Bunter tucked the towels and the bottle of oil under his arm, took up the silver tray, and proceeded back to Lord Peter's bedroom. During his absence, his lordship had shed his day clothing, donned the dressing gown, and seated himself upon one of the cushions. The firelight played across the intricate weave of the silk, highlighting the glossy ivy leaves and many-petalled eglantines that seemed but part of a mauve monochromatism when illuminated by the glow of mere lamps. As he poured a cup of tea, Bunter's thoughts flew momentarily to another dressing gown in his lordship's wardrobe -- one emblazoned with unnaturally variegated peacocks. It had been too gaudy an article of clothing to bring out during his lordship's convalescence, but Bunter could easily envision its brassy colours complementing irreverent improvisations upon Dowland airs and insouciant critiques of quattrocento poetry. Bunter had not yet witnessed his lordship engage in such activities for more than a few moments at a time, but within the moments that had materialised thus far, he had glimpsed the agility of mind and liveliness of spirit that had intrigued him from the very first day Major Wimsey had taken charge of his unit.

Bunter had imagined his lordship's return to form to be close at hand, but the tension that currently commandeered Lord Peter's body suggested otherwise. His lordship accepted the tea and drank it thirstily while Bunter held the towels in front of the fire to warm them. Upon hearing the clink of china against silver, Bunter turned to see whether his lordship required more tea, but Lord Peter had immediately occupied himself with untying the robe, wriggling out of its sleeves, and draping it over himself as an ersatz blanket as he stretched out across the carpet, ignoring the divan in favour of resting his head in his arms.

Bunter knelt beside his lordship and spread one of the towels next to him. Lord Peter obligingly rolled onto the expanse of cotton, Bunter lifting the robe and rearranging it across his lordship's lower half. He layered a second towel on top of the silk, rolled up his sleeves, and poured a thimbleful of the oil into his right palm.

His lordship was silent as Bunter massaged his shoulders and upper back, with not even a grunt or a groan or a sigh escaping his lips. Fearing he had chosen the wrong strategy, Bunter stilled his hands, resting them lightly on either side of Lord Peter's spine. The skin beneath his palms was warm and smooth, but as soon as he halted his ministrations, his lordship began to shudder violently.

"My lord!" Alarmed, Bunter leant forward at the same time Lord Peter rolled against him. He instinctively wrapped his arms around his lordship in an effort to quell the trembling.

"_Thrice colder than salamanders,_" Lord Peter mumbled. "_This blindness too much light breeds..._ Bunter, Bunter, why waste your time on wreckage? Everything I touch --"

"Nonsense, my lord," Bunter said, tightening his embrace. "Not wreckage. Far from everything. If you'll allow me to draw up your dressing gown --"

"_I burn for cold, I starve for heat --_ Bunter, what's the _use_?" Lord Peter buried his face against Bunter's collar, his breathing shallow and panicked. "I can't make it right -- can't get warm -- can't sleep -- can't do _anything_ properly --"

"That's _not so_, my lord," Bunter insisted. His lordship was shaking so hard that Bunter didn't dare let go; instead, he pressed Lord Peter back against the towel, arranging himself on top of his master in the manner of a makeshift blanket. As he'd hoped, the weight and warmth of his body helped soothe the other man.

After a span of several minutes, Lord Peter heaved a sigh. "You are exceedingly good to me, Bunter. You can't tell me you were looking forward to impersonatin' a bloody hot water bottle when you looked me up."

"It was not a necessity I had anticipated," Bunter admitted, "but, my lord, I assure you I do not find it tedious."

Lord Peter tilted his head. "You honestly don't, do you. Bunter, what _do_ you consider a bore?"

"I have not yet encountered a situation to which I would append that designation, my lord."

Lord Peter was incredulous. "Bunter, are you claiming you've never in your life felt trapped?"

"My lord, when a situation defies my capacity either to enjoy or escape it, I consider it cause for dismay rather than indifference." As he spoke, Bunter slid his arms free from around his lordship and made as if to push himself up. He froze, however, when Lord Peter placed both hands upon his chest.

"Bunter," said his lordship, his voice more husky and hesitant than ever, "might your capacity for enjoyment... might it include an exchange of passion without expectation?"

Bunter lowered his lips to his lordship's ear, letting them graze the fine scrollwork of its construction before he murmured, "It would be my pleasure in every respect, my lord."

Lord Peter was very pale, but the expression on his face was one Bunter had seen when his lordship was absorbed in playing Scarlatti -- the eyes a softer grey, the line of the mouth more masculine. Bunter angled his head until their lips met. His lordship tasted of tea, and smoke, and salt, and heat, and Bunter savoured the slide and tangle of their tongues as his lordship deftly unbuttoned his shirt.

It was not new to him, the sensation of strong fingers pinching and plucking at his nipples until he gasped and ground his hips against the body beneath him. It was not new to sense elegant hands undoing his trousers and pushing his underwear out of the way while he laved a slender throat with open-mouthed kisses; it was not novel to twine his fingers in the soft, silken thatch of hair below a lover's belly. What was new -- what made him catch his breath, even though he'd already sensed the undercurrent steering them to this point -- was his lordship closing a hand around both their erections and whispering, "Let me."

Acquiescing, Bunter reached for the bottle of oil, carefully drizzling a generous measure of it over his lordship's hand and the flesh upon which it had begun a tantalizing grip-and-glide. He braced his left forearm to the side of his lordship's head and let the other drift down to the root of his lordship's cock, mentally cataloguing the myriad sensations on offer even as he savoured them: the light periodic collision of his lordship's knuckles against his own. The faint, absurd blurt of a well-oiled hand closing on air instead of flesh, followed immediately by the hand regaining its clasp once more. The beads of sweat forming on the fine stubble above his lordship's mouth. The way his lordship turned his face into the crook of Bunter's arm, his breath hot and damp as they surged toward their climaxes.

Bunter sank his fingers into the towel beneath them as his blood raced faster and faster. The effort of keeping still intensified the delicious torment of his lordship's attention -- the tease and tug of skilled, muscular fingers asserting their command of his gratification. Lord Peter was shaking again, this time in convulsions of relief rather than despair, but he continued to stroke Bunter's penis with confident pressure. Bunter's gaze remained upon Lord Peter's face as his orgasm overtook him, registering the unadulterated satisfaction in the clear grey eyes as he dropped to his lordship's side, momentarily incapable of maintaining any pose other than sheer, satiated ease.

As he waited for his breathing to regain its ordinary rhythm, Bunter resumed the pleasure of compulsive itemisation: the rapid rise and fall of his lordship's chest. The crackle of a log crumbling into coals and ashes. The fruit and cheese still on the silver tray. The viscosities of the semen that had splattered his right hand -- his own thick, whitish release more sticky than the transparent, almost-oily fluid that had spurted from his lordship.

He flexed his fingers, deliberately cracking the sheen of the liquids that had begun to dry on the skin. "My lord, if I may make so bold --"

"_If_?" Lord Peter wheezed, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes. "What do you propose, o Bunter mine?"

"I propose that I now draw a hot bath for your lordship."

Lord Peter stopped laughing. He fixed an anxious, searching gaze upon Bunter, who instantly said, "My lord, there is no need for that."

"None, Bunter?"

"No expectations whatsoever, my lord," Bunter said, reaching for the silk dressing gown. He arranged the luxurious fabric over his master's body and then stood up to secure one of the towels around his own hips. He was conscious of his lordship's gaze remaining on him -- a sensation that prompted him to kneel once more by his lordship's head. Their eyes locked.

"My lord," Bunter said, "the world is significantly more sturdy -- more resilient -- than your nightmares would have you believe."

"Indeed?" Lord Peter seized Bunter's arm. "Bunter, Bunter, Bunter -- what would you say if I asked you to promise me that? That there does indeed abide a peace I cannot mar --"

"It is not my place to speak for the wider world," Bunter said.

"Wider world be damned," Lord Peter snapped. "Bunter, I am imploring you to save yourself from me."

"Should it come to that, my lord, I give you my word that I will look out for myself. I cannot, however, envision our affairs reaching such an intolerable state of crisis. It would speak of extraordinarily inept management on my part."

Bunter took a deep breath, leant forward, and continued. "My lord. If I may be frank, your lordship is in possession of privileges that would not only bear your exercise of them to a fuller degree, but almost certainly flourish all the more."

Lord Peter stared at him. "A most dangerous speech. Have you not heard what happens to cats who indulge their curiosity too freely?"

"I would venture to suggest, my lord, that many creatures of the feline persuasion survive their exploits by successfully evading the attention of would-be moralists."

"Letting their whimsies take them where they would?" A thoughtful expression stole across Lord Peter's face. Hesitantly, he added, "Bunter, I -- I do believe I would enjoy that bath."

Bunter spared a fleeting, wistful thought for the "Let me" his lordship had uttered but a few minutes earlier. _Almost..._ Aloud, Bunter said, "Very good, my lord."

\--oo--

 

When Bunter first glanced into the bedroom the following morning, he beheld his lordship sleeping soundly. Untroubled by nightmares, the man's face had the look of a gawky schoolboy or page in repose, albeit one ensconced beneath an exquisite matelasse counterpane, with the silk dressing gown nearby and a well-thumbed edition of Milton's sonnets on the bedside table.

Bunter padded noiselessly back to the kitchen, where he prepared and consumed his own breakfast, perused the morning's papers, and attended to an assortment of minor chores, all the while listening for the rustle of bedclothes. The French style of dressing a bed -- that of sandwiching a second flat sheet between the blanket and counterpane -- had served him well: he took pride in ensuring that the linens immediately proximate to his lordship's body were appealingly soft and comfortable, but he had also developed a routine of preparing the bed with uppermost sheets that had been starched to a crisp, chilly perfection. Their soft yet distinctive crackle served to telegraph his lordship's matitudinal movements in lieu of the bell his lordship had not yet regained the savoir-faire to use.

Bunter was already in the hallway when he heard the chime. It was not a wholly unfamiliar sound, as he had personally tested all the buttons and pulls in the flat during his inspection of its features. Nevertheless, his heart leapt within him, causing an almost imperceptible hiccough in his stride as he continued on to Lord Peter's bedroom.

"My lord?" he said.

"Good morning, Bunter," Lord Peter said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well indeed, my lord." Bunter said. He was pleased that his voice was steady, concealing the thrill the sound of the bell had triggered in him. "A good morning to you."

"As glorious a morning as ever I have seen," Lord Peter declared. His eyes were dancing and the corners of his mouth turned up. "The Egotists' Club for me today, I fancy."

"Very good, my lord," Bunter said. "I will have your lordship's bath-water ready within a few minutes."

"Thank you," Lord Peter said, reaching for a cigarette. As Bunter stepped toward the bathroom, he heard his master reciting to himself, "_Time will run on smoother, 'till Favonius reinspire / the frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire..._"

As his lordship luxuriated in a cloud of verbena-scented steam, Bunter laid out a grey suit, along with the shirt, socks, tie, and other articles of clothing appropriate to a clubman's ensemble. As he cracked open a pair of eggs and whisked them into a froth with a measure of cream, Bunter overheard several strains of a song in the French language:

> _Je ne suis pas si vilaine, Margot,  
> puis que les fils du roi m'aime,   
> vignes, vignes, vignolet..._

 

He had just set the breakfast in front of his lordship's favourite chair when Lord Peter emerged from the bathroom.

"_What neat repast shall fill us_\-- ah, splendid." His lordship closed his eyes for a moment, happily inhaling the fragrance of fresh coffee and the scents of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. Instead of immediately sitting down, he stood in place a moment longer, his hand resting on the back of the chair. As Bunter lowered the coffee pot back onto the tray, Lord Peter caught his eye.

"Bunter." The knuckles of the hand clutching the chair-back were white, but his lordship was visibly striving to keep his voice casual. "Bunter, take away these damned eggs and bring me a sausage."

Bunter's face broke into a broad, stupid smile. He silently scolded himself for overreacting, but relief flashed across his lordship's countenance. As Bunter picked up the plate and murmured, "Very good, my lord," Lord Peter dropped into the chair and lifted the cup of coffee to his lips.

Bunter could not stop smiling as he left the bedroom. As he approached the kitchen, he heard a latchkey at the entrance of the flat. He redirected his steps to the sitting room, where he was unsurprised to discover the Dowager Duchess of Denver setting down her handbag.

"Good morning, Bunter," she said.

"Good morning, your Grace. Fine morning, your Grace."

"It is indeed," she agreed. Her bright, dark eyes caught sight of the plate of eggs. "Taking breakfast in to Peter, I see?"

Bunter made a supreme effort to collect himself, but the effort of reining in his joy caused his hands to shake almost uncontrollably. There was no question that the eggs would spill onto the carpet if he didn't set the plate down _now_, even though none of the surfaces in his vicinity were appropriate. He knew her Grace would understand -- he knew his lordship would forgive him -- but he nevertheless flushed with embarrassment as he hastily deposited the hot plate onto the nearest table.

The Duchess's eyes were wide with astonishment. "Bunter!... Peter?" Her voice was suffused with both anxiety and hope.

Bunter's throat felt tight but his heart was soaring. _No looking back now!_ The future was shining within reach, its glorious mysteries to behold. And to start, there were sausages to prepare for his lordship. "Oh, your Grace!" he finally managed. "His lordship has told me..."


End file.
